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Posts Tagged ‘nature’

Floating Over

This mystic world, those colored trees,
Those rolling hills my dreams do paint,
My gloomy head and foggy thoughts
Collecting to precipitate.

For this place through eyes of men,
Or eyes of bear, or fox, or deer,
Their world’s see what I cannot,
My world’s smoke, theirs is clear.

Pure instinct makes those hearts guide true,
While clouding thoughts weigh on me,
For what to do in such a scene
But sit and think with large pine tree.

Colorful land, colorless sky,
These worlds meet at sheltered creek,
Autumn bronzed and flowing peace,
Pine needle forests pulsing deep,

And oh to sleep but it’s too cold
To rest and escape these thinking things,
You mystic world let me in,
Tell me what my heart can bring.

 Would I add to your confusion?
Or maybe I the one confused,
And this world makes all clear sense,
Or am I the one that has to choose?

Land shutting down, sky holding still,
What’s asleep and what’s awake?
Do shedding leaves mean drowsiness,
Would proper be my hand to shake?

But mystic world answer me,
Take me up in this color mess,
Where trees meet sky and sky meets trees,
Me to float between back and chest

So heart becomes the mystic line.
For land you have a spirit here,
But I the beating heart that’s true,
You confuse with your graying air.

My natural guide will let me hear
Half of your secrets in the ground,
And half the creatures’ place I’ll see
And know your whispers have been found

And placed in my secret pocket,
My thoughts on page, my diary,
But only by pouring out
And floating over all the scene.

Kyle McHale      2009

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Cloud Everest

When those sky creatures build up
The right way in the summer heat,
Craggy cumulus mountain peaks
Somewhere our souls seek to summit.

If one looks up and thinks, most don’t,
That calling is there, the whole range
Morphing and shifting something strange
That the sky map shows and land maps won’t.

Spirit looks to the tallest form,
Aborigines born out of red
Rock in the heart where earth is dead,
A legend spreads of where we are born.

A Cloud Everest no one can climb,
Temporary tortures and leaves,
Mountains no one could conceive
Become lost in the wandering mind.

A seeking soul, a traveler,
That same reason for land searching
And climbing and wanting and dancing
Strung out above the wanderer.

Recognize that all may be blest,
Kit up and go! The puffs of ice
That don’t exist but in this life,
Climb what’s yours that Cloud Everest!

Kyle McHale 2013

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At That Site

Somewhere in the heart
My world’s beating slow,
While resting on a stone
My heart has come to know.

At a dying site
Where the stones sit still,
Type of life in air
Only souls can fill.

And moments so in time,
Thinking peacefully soft,
Swirling dancing air,
Dancing dreadful lost.

A site of life and death,
Of strong earthy mud,
Connecting air and ground,
A site where flowers bud,

And rain and rain goes round,
And up and live left down,
The rest of beating faith
Leaves without a sound,

The rest of fleeting love
Leaves the heart to run,
That only person’s left,
Just senses and the sun,

To keen eye all the air,
All surrounding place,
Knowing only body,
Knowing fight or chase.

And in this primal state,
Of life and death and love,
Will it be the rabbit,
Or the hawk and the dove?

Or creature that is new,
Still a heart and human soul,
Knowing fear and loss
And all that sadness goes,

 Feeling heat and cold,
Howling for the pack,
Turning out all soul,
Letting heart come back.

Real human faith,
Eerie place hold still,
The ending and the start,
My breath is what is filled.

Kyle McHale      2009

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In the Hours

When do we live
After hearts snap
In the hours
Between sleep and wake?

As if these times
Are surreal,
Sunrise, sunset,
Hours of sleep and wake.

We live, or live dead.
Not every dream
Is a pinch from
Over nor seem

The least bit dreamy.
It could be a dream
And nightmares
Cannot harm you.

Nothing can,
For it could be a dream.

Kyle McHale      2004

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Barren Bone Place

Across the barren desert land,
Aging red rocks and cracking hands,
A place that I would not call home,
All rots and sits as deep white bone.

The mess I’m in I half know why,
The other half in dizzy sky.
I walk and climb, and climb and walk,
Nothing to say or think to talk.

Illusion’s my friend I believe,
Yet half the things I don’t conceive,
That large black kettle cooking pot,
Cooking the weak and dead that rot

From choosing a red rocky fate.
This place cares not of one’s mistakes,
The only things it understands
Are fleshy boney broken hands,

And broken wills and souls that try
To flee the things that made them cry.
The past is not a factor now,
The crumbling rock forgets somehow.

The past cannot follow one here,
Yet feeling thoughts remains unclear
Of where to go, what rock to climb,
Where to look, what to do with time.

Black kettle pots and vultures wait
For tired flesh to eat and take,
The quitted bones are on the ground,
Those souls gave up, they make no sound.

The small twisted sparse desert plants,
Shift and dance at a passing glance,
Are never there to help or harm,
To scratch my soul or take my arm.

The sky forgets but knows I live,
Not caring whole, will not forgive.
Curving trails of dry stream beds
Curve their way to my bone dry head.

The capsule body carries forth,
Costing what my soul is worth.
I see the vultures circling high,
Black they turn, falling as they die

To hit the dozen kettle pots
That dot the land in different spots.
One on a rock, one on a hill,
Three in a stream this place has killed,

One with the plants that’s passed around,
The rest on dry red rocky ground.
Each vulture hits, squeals and screams,
Sounds of nightmares, unpleasant dreams,

They cook down to their soul and bone,
My eyes watch fearing all unknown,
The water whistling dry pitch high,
Observing this, knowing that I

Have to reach my hand in to eat,
Know not this place and what to keep,
My hand in form of skeleton,
Melts off all my useless skin,

It drips back into water hot,
Awaking peaceful dreadful spot.
I eat the vulture heart as well,
Then wave my boney hand to smell

The air energy peaceful sweet,
In every bite my soul does eat
A piece of fractured split bone life.
Hoping day stays away from night,

Flesh returns to parts of this place,
Warm dusty air blows in my face,
Quitted bones become whole again,
Is this the beginning or the end?

Water spews out of kettles black,
Dry stream beds get their water back,
The bones of beasts fill up with flesh,
Vulture heart spirit in my chest,

Plants continue their dancing dreams,
Barren things I have never seen.
Life became what I did not know,
Distorted place where one must go.

Forces came to lock up my nerves,
Gripping dry time and where I was,
I stepped back to watch all the scene,
Surreal places, days and dreams.

I let everything in to soak,
Fleeting dreams and the last of hopes,
Praying to thank these characters,
I summoned strength back to my nerves.

Hope real finds me after this,
I left my mark and did not miss
What the place showed to offer me,
Those things I saw, now what I see.

Bone-flesh-black-kettle-pots fulfill
Emptiness I no longer feel,
What I choose to live as real,
By pausing once, and holding still.

A touching blend of swirling air
Let me pass to lead me here,
A world far away from that,
Only in dreams could I ever go back.

Kyle McHale      2009

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Man’s Heart

Always now, as always then,
A place to form a perfect age,
When chivalry and better men
Had fine-tuned their sharp, skillful rage,
Or showed their love with letters sent,
With blood and earth on an old page.
Better or worse to woman that
Could then play puppet, tit for tat.

Always now, as always back
When only strength in men had failed,
Crushing thoughts of a woman that
Gave wind to an empty sail,
The only thing that men do lack,
Finding strength in loves betrayal.
Old knights and new knights do their best,
Holding hearts from a bursting chest.

Always now, as always ago,
Carried honor but could not pass,
Through or around the awful show
Of two body prints in soft grass
Where love was formed and made to glow,
But no one told not made to last.
A time or two duration of,
When honor thinks it can keep love.

Always now, as always had
To carry swords and steel plates,
But battle flesh is far from sad
When stacked against loving’s hate,
Of that which kills a lonely lads
Chance at keeping honors fate.
What swords of men, what honor set
Of traits can make good men forget?

Always now, as always past,
Dark ages come and go away,
It’s sweetest things that do not last,
That make men men in honors way,
Carrying forth the only task
To say the words when one must say,
I am man with armored heart,
I lead worlds that once were dark.

Kyle McHale      2009

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The Spoken Truth

The truth is spoken by the world,
It speaks in form of natural song,
You will find yourself in nature,
In yourself there will be God.

Kyle McHale      2012

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